My Iceberg
by pgrabia
Summary: Follow-up to "My Folly" & "My Wilson". House struggles to keep himself together after a devastating disappointment. Warning: Includes themes of substance abuse and suicidal ideation. Spoilers for Season 6.


**My Iceberg**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

_A/N: _This is a little follow up to the previous stories I wrote: "My Folly" and "My Wilson". **Warning: **This story deals with themes of substance abuse and suicidal ideation. I hope that I avoid clichés and over-the-top plot or characterizations! The reviews I received on the previous two stories I wrote along this vein have been very helpful and insightful into the personalities and motivations of the characters—thank you so much! Please continue to review! My intension is for this to be the final installment but if you want me to continue, let me know.

* * *

I sit at the bar, staring at the double scotch neat sitting on the polished oak in front of me. It will be my second, and I hesitate, wondering if I should just leave it untouched and walk away or down it all at once and order another. The shock I felt as I walked aimlessly the streets of downtown Princeton wore off after about an hour and I left me with the pain, raw and bleeding, in my center where my heart once was. The heart itself is with Cuddy, crushed in her hand as she drove in the sunshine with him, smiling and happy, exactly where she wanted to be. I want her to be smiling and happy, only with me not Lucas. I don't want to imagine her happy with him, ever, but she is. As long as she is, I'll live in misery. As long as I am forced to live without her, I will never fully know happiness.

Picking up the glass I take a sip, allowing the smooth single malt to flow across my tongue, enjoying the fruity palate that finished with a hit of charred oak. It is warm and smooth as it goes down my throat towards my stomach. My intent is to enjoy the good stuff as long as I'm sober enough to appreciate it; once I'm loaded I don't care if I'm served kerosene so long as it dulls the heartache. I think about my months of sobriety and smirk bitterly. It was good while it lasted, I suppose, but as with everything, all good things eventually end and make way for the bad. I've had the odd drink here and there since leaving Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital but I have not allowed myself to become drunk; technically I'm not supposed to be drinking anything alcohol in nature. My psychiatrist, Dr. Nolan, doesn't know that I occasionally enjoy a beer or a glass of wine with dinner, nor would he be impressed if he did. I managed to stay away from the hard stuff until now, but now was a special celebration—my rebirth into what I have always truly been and will always be no matter how hard I try to change—Failure.

I down the rest of the liquor and feel the light flush in my face as the alcohol causes my peripheral capillaries and small blood vessels to dilate, fill with blood and cast a rosy glow to my cheeks. Already I'm feeling much calmer, more at ease. I forgot how good this felt. My stomach is nearly empty and I want to leave it that way. I want to get drunk quickly and stay that way for as long as I can before I binge—and inevitably I will because I'm an addict after all—and pass out. I still think that it's not too late. I can still call Wilson before I get any more intoxicated. I can call Nolan on the emergency number he gave me, have him talk me down…but I'm not certain I want to be talked down. I'm tired of feeling sad and angry and emotionally out of control. Nolan tells me that feeling that way is healthier than deadening my emotions with alcohol or pills. It's easy for him to say. He's not sitting here, his heart broken, questioning whether or not he has any real reason to keep fighting for sobriety when it makes no difference today whatsoever. I know that I am supposed to be fighting for myself, but honestly, without Lisa Cuddy I don't care about what becomes of me; I was fighting for her, to be the man she wanted and needed but it wasn't good enough soon enough. And I am so tired of fighting. I'm tired of life, period.

I reach into my jacket pocket and touch the small circular tabs rolling loosely over each other. They are red and smooth and feel beautiful—not Vicodin—but plenty good enough. Percocet is plenty good enough. The woman selling behind the Walgreens hadn't had Vicodin, just these and Tylenol 3s.

I hesitate before taking two of the pills out. Once I take these, all pretenses are gone. I am back, selling myself into slavery again, a bittersweet bondage that I can't help but long for. This Mistress is a bitch, but the temporary pleasures she offers are calling to me, whispering false promises in my ears and it is so easy to overlook her transgressions of the past.

Sighing, I signal the bartender for another, plunking a ten down onto the bar. He deposits the Craigellachie and snatches the ten. This will be my last overpriced premium; subsequent drinks will be cheaper. My conscience is still bothering me, and I decide to give Nolan a chance to convince me not to completely cut the bungee cord and dive head-first into the chasm of opiate hell. I down this glass as well.

I pull out my cell phone and bring up the number from my contacts list then press dial and put the device to my ear; I chose go to a quieter, more upscale establishment. If I am going to sink like the Titanic I want to go down in style. It is easy to hear the ringing; three times I hear it before I hear the line pick up.

"This is Nolan," my shrink's smooth voice comes over the line.

"It's House," I tell him. I know that I'm slurring slightly and that he won't miss it. I've become quite the lightweight in a little over eight months. "I thought I should talk to you."

There is a pause that lasts no longer than a heartbeat. "Hello, Greg," he says calmly. "How much have you drunk so far?"

That's one thing I like about the psychiatrist: he never minces words. Direct and to the point is a quality I have always admired.

Chuckling softly I answer, "Three doubles. I'd have called sooner but I had to build my courage."

"You're courageous enough without the alcohol," he tells me, still calmly but the disappointment in his voice is detectable. That bothers me a little, but no longer as much as it should. "I would have preferred it if you could have called me before the first one."

"Yeah," I mumble, "but we can't always get what we want."

"Where are you Greg?" Nolan asks me. For the life of me I can't remember the name of the lounge and I have to look at the cocktail napkin under my empty glass, squinting slightly to read it.

"The Cityview Club," I answer.

"In Princeton?"

"Yeah," I say, nodding. The full effect of that much alcohol was hitting hard after so long without inebriation; my high tolerance is gone. I notice that the guy sitting to my left is listening in on my conversation. I could say something obnoxious to him to get him to back off but I decide not to—it wouldn't sound too good to the guy on the other end of the line. I get up from my stool a little unsteadily at first and grab my cane. I walk towards the door and notice that my normal limping gate is off.

"Are you alone?" is Nolan's next question for me. I'm stepping into the afternoon sun already.

"Well, besides the dozen or so other people on this sidewalk I am," I tell him, smirking. "I left the lounge for a little privacy—like that bench there." I fix my eyes on a bench sitting at a nearby bus stop and head for it.

"Does James know where you are?" he asks. He is referring to my best friend, surrogate mother and roommate Dr. James Wilson.

I shake my head and sit down on the bench a little heavily. "No, but he's probably looking for me."

I hear a light sigh from Nolan, not of anger but again, of disappointment. I wish he'd stop sighing. I didn't call for a guilt trip. In fact, I don't really know why I called.

"Are you somewhere safe to talk?"

I look around. No threats around that are visible to me. "I think so," I tell him.

"I can tell that you are fairly inebriated already so I'm doubtful that a therapy session over the phone right now would be very productive," the psychiatrist says. "I am more concerned about your safety at present."

"That's nice of you," I tell him, trying to sound sarcastic but I just don't hear it. "but my safety doesn't matter anymore."

"It does to me, Greg," Nolan says, "and it does to James as well. There are a number of people who would be distressed if something should become of you."

"You're wrong," I argue, feeling some of my melancholy being stirred up and destroying my buzz.

"What triggered your drinking?" the shrink asks. I am not sure if I want to tell him. It hurts so much just thinking about Cuddy that I don't want to know how much it will hurt if I talk about her too. My hand is back in my jacket pocket, caressing the little tablets of joy and peace.

I sigh heavily and close my eyes. "I told Cuddy that I'm in love with her. I kissed her and she kissed back and then out of nowhere slapped me. She told me to go to hell and then drove away with her boy-toy. I can't believe how stupid I am."

"You're not stupid," my therapist tells me. "Loving someone and expressing that is not stupid. There may have been a more productive way available that you missed but that doesn't make you stupid."

Shaking my head, I slump into a more comfortable position on the bench. "The way she was kissing me…I thought she felt the same way. For that brief moment I was happy—but that's gone. I'll never feel that way again. I figured, what the hell is the point? I've tried so hard to get better so that she would see the change in me and give me another chance…and none of it matters. To her I'm still the Vicodin popping monster I was a year ago—she hasn't seen me at all."

"A few moments of silence pass between us. "You're not the same person you were a year ago, Greg," Nolan encourages, "whether she is willing or able to see that or not. You've come a very long way."

"Not far enough," I whisper. I pull some of the pills out of my pocket. I bought twenty in all—it was all of the Percocet the dealer had left. I look at them longingly. All I need is one, one or two, to help me get through this moment, over this hump. I can stay away from the rest. I can throw them away. I can maintain control.

"What does that mean?" my shrink demands, an edge of worry to his voice. "Greg?"

I figure I might as well come clean. It's not like he can stop me from popping them into my mouth if I want to. I'm literally salivating like one of Pavlov's miserable mongrels at the sight of them. I hear my Mistress, that sultry Siren calling me ever closer to the rocks.

"I bought some pills," I confess. "Some Percocet. I've got them in my hand right now."

Nolan now speaks very carefully and deliberately to me. "Have you taken any of them yet?"

I roll them around in my palm. They shine in the sunlight. "Not yet," I say. "I want to."

"I know," my therapist tells me softly, "but if you do your relief will be temporary—the results will be much more long-term. Your hard work, your job, your license to practice medicine, perhaps even your mind—all of that lost with one pill. Don't throw all of that away for a few hours of phony peace."

I don't know why, perhaps it's the alcohol, but I tell him the unthinkable thought I have toyed with since buying these red lovelies. "What about for permanent peace, Nolan? I have over three times enough. I have no reason not to…no woman who loves me, no friends or family who care…I just have misery to leave behind."

Nolan seemed to hesitate before answering. "Greg, I care. I am not saying that just to 'talk you down'. I mean it—I wouldn't say it if I didn't. You know that James cares. Dr. Chase cares."

I laugh derisively at that. Chase? Chase hates me! It's because of me that his wife no longer has faith of his redemption—because I have molded him into another monster just like me. I tell my psychiatrist just that.

"I probably should not be telling you this Greg, but since he did not specifically ask me to keep it secret I am going to share something with you," Nolan tells me. "While you were in Mayfield Dr. Chase called me periodically to inquire about you and how you were doing. Of course I respected Doctor-patient confidentiality and did not tell him anything pertaining to your therapy. I did share with him your physical well-being and general morale around the other patients."

"Chase was on his Honeymoon while I started detox!" I scoff in disbelief.

"Yes," my shrink agrees. "He was. He did not have to call about you. There was no obligation. He did not work for you at the time and he wasn't prompted to do so by his wife. In fact, he told me that she didn't know he was making the calls to me and preferred that it remain that way. A person does not take time during his Honeymoon to check on someone he doesn't care about."

I think about that. I don't understand the motivation behind his apparent concern. I have given him no reason to care—in fact I have treated him perhaps more harshly than any of my former Fellows, both while he still worked for me and after he had quit, before I committed myself to Mayfield. It doesn't make sense to me. There has to be another reason for it besides what Nolan has just told me.

"I am concerned that you have opiates on your person and in a quantity high enough to threaten your life," the psychiatrist continues. "Greg, is there a garbage can or receptacle in your immediate vicinity?"

There is one right beside me but I don't want to admit it. I know what he wants me to do—and I'm not ready to throw them away. I haven't decided whether or not I want to take any. My alcohol-befuddled mind is having difficulty weighing everything out. What Nolan said was true: if I take the Percocet, it is all over. Undoubtedly Cuddy will find out eventually, and I will lose my job, especially the way things are now between her and me; likewise she will report it to the State medical board, which will at least suspend my license pending treatment, if not revoke it outright. All of the hard work I have put in, the ghosts and skeletons I've unearthed and processed, the trust, all of the trust, albeit not complete, I have gained in the people I work with, Wilson's trust and perhaps even his friendship, and, perhaps most terrifying of all, my sanity—lost, forfeited, perhaps forever. If I take one, I might as well as take them all.

I recall that I am the Titanic—flawed from the start—heading directly for the iceberg that will sink me if I hit it. I will not simply scratch the paint on the hull—my fate is set if I continue on the course I am taking. However, I have an advantage that the real Titanic didn't; I have sailed this way before and I know about the iceberg in my path with time left yet to avoid it if I act now. If I turn my rudder I will survive. The only question that remains therefore is if I want to survive.

The pain in my thigh reminds me of the battles I still have to fight and the ones I know I never will win—but can I win the war if I don't surrender? Do I want to win when I have already lost the main reason for which I have been fighting in the first place?

"Greg?" I hear over the phone, "are you still there? Greg?" It wakes my dopy mind.

"Yeah, I'm here," I mumble.

Nolan's voice is filled with relief. "I want you to find a receptacle and throw the Percocet away instead of your life."

_I know you do_, I think, _but do I?_

"What kind of life is it without Lisa?" I ask despondently. The Siren is calling again, drawing me closer, closer by her sweet call.

"It's a life where you fight for yourself because you are worth it," Nolan replies quickly. "Lisa may not love you but that does not mean that no one else ever will or that you will never be able to love someone else. I know you know this, Greg, but the alcohol is clouding your reasoning. Don't make an irreversible decision based on faulty logic."

Faulty logic—those two words stick in my craw. I live by logic, I trust only it. If my logic is flawed, can I trust anything I think?

I look at the red pills in my hand. They aren't shining quite so brightly anymore.

"Please don't take them," I hear being said behind me. I know the voice. I shift on the bench to look behind me. Wilson is standing there, slightly winded, his cell phone in his hand. A concerned frown clouds his chocolate brown eyes and pulls down on the corners of his mouth. It occurs to me now that Wilson is on the phone with Nolan as well. One had called the other. Nolan has been stalling me in order to give my best friend time to drive to my location. Even though I know they have been conspiring to thwart me, I am not angry but relieved.

I speak into the phone. "Wilson is here, but of course, you know that."

There is no sound of regret in the psychiatrist's voice. "I know. Listen to him, Greg. He is one of those people who genuinely care. I am going to let you go now—but I will call you later to make arrangements to meet within the next day or two. You can do this."

I shake my head. "How do you know?" I ask quietly.

"You called me, didn't you?" Nolan answers simply. "I will speak with you soon."

"Yeah," I say with a nod. I am reminded of the day I used an overnight pass from Mayfield to go to Lydia's house, to try to convince her not to move away. She had chosen her family over me—a completely logical decision for her to have made, but very a very difficult one for me to accept. I had been tempted not to go back to the hospital but to get drunk and stoned, just like today, but for some reason had decided to seek out Nolan instead. That night he had told me I was ready to go home because I had sought out help instead of resorting to self-destruction.

"Bye," I whisper and then press END and stick my phone back into my jacket pocket. From the opposite pocket I withdraw the rest of the Percocet and throw every last tablet into the trash can. Wilson puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Let's go home, House," he says to me.

Nodding, I take my cane in hand and rise slowly to my feet. He and I walk side by side to his car, both of us silent. I see the iceberg pass by me without contact and the Siren song fades with it. A narrow miss, I muse ruefully.

"This time," I murmur out loud. I see Wilson look over at me curiously out of the corner of my eye.

"What was that?" he asks me.

"This time you're buying dinner," I tell him, covering.

My Wilson shakes his head and smirks, reminding me, "I always do, House."


End file.
